The Journey Home (formerly "In Progress")
by GryfinndorSeeker
Summary: A new adult character unwillingly enters into the wizarding world after years of avoiding it. New Update: I've made some revisions throughout, and added material enough for a fourth chapter. thanks for the reviews--I can always use more, please! My fir
1. Default Chapter

Hi! Thanks for taking a few minutes to check this out! This is my first fan fic, so please bear   
with me and review if possible--thank you so much to those who already have!! I take all reviews  
seriously. For those of you who have been following this, I've done some minor editing on the   
text and changed the length of some of the chapters, and added new material at the end. Sorry it  
has taken me so long--I've been traveling and haven't been able to get to a computer till now!   
After today, updates will occur more frequently, I promise!  
  
***  
She flashed him a smile as she ran out into the rain. Drops trickled down the nape of her   
neck, mixing with sweat and dust until a miniature trail of mud streamed under her shirt.  
Reaching up, she loosened the band holding earth-brown curls so that her hair blazed out   
like a flag smacking into a breeze. He stared as her knees suddenly buckled and she knelt  
to smell the earth, placing her palm in the mud-an impression which would remain till the   
men returned the next day. She tossed her head back, gesturing him to come close, as the   
mud oozed into her jeans.  
  
He approached, hesitantly at first, then with increasing confidence, and crouched beside   
her. His mistake, one which he never seemed to learn from, occurred when he broke eye   
contact. All of a sudden, her leg swung around and pitched underneath him, throwing him   
off balance. More quickly than a stray at a table scrap, she was on him, bearing an   
Amazonian grin.  
  
"That's two," she said.  
  
***  
Christine Fields sat back in the overstuffed chair, running one hand upon its cushioned arm  
as the other reached for her drink. "Thank you, Rosemerta," she smiled, her soft voice   
blending with the snowfall outside.  
  
"Are you sure, ma'am?" Rosemerta looked doubtfully at the drink. "If it isn't. . . ."  
  
"It's fine. Really. One can never have too much chocolate."  
  
Rosemerta arched her brow and glanced over to the bar, where a patron met her glance and  
shrugged. "Well, suit yourself. Maybe it goes well with . . . ." She bent down to view  
the cover of the tattered book the young woman was cradling.  
  
"Plato," she responded quickly. "A Muggle philosopher," she added, lowering her voice.   
The pub was virtually empty, but there was no need to advertise certain things.  
  
"Ah, I see," said Rosemerta, who really didn't see at all where Muggle philosophy had  
a place in the isolated village of Hogsmeade--or any philosophy at all, for that matter.   
She shifted the tray she was holding to her other hip, and meandered her way towards the bar,   
allowing her posture to speak for her.  
  
Christine peeked over her book, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. If this was what the  
mainstream wizarding world thought of the classics, it might be a long five months.   
Sighing, she flung her arm over the back of the chair, and, shifting her weight, rested   
fetus-like in the corner. She draped her ankle over the arm--freedom of movement with   
increased modesty was one advantage of wearing robes. It was only after she was comfortable   
and attempted to start again at her studies that she felt it--despite her best efforts, she   
had attracted the attention of someone behind her. Motionless, she shifted her concentration   
backwards, closing her eyes in an effort to block this new world out for a moment. Everything   
was so active here--it was not so different from her training with Geral, she supposed, except   
that there she knew her place and that of everyone around her. Finally, she identified him,   
just as his attention shifted. Another instant and she would have missed him. The soldier   
in her analyzed first--he bore no threatening intentions, at least, and apparently didn't   
realize she had noticed him--all this could work to her advantage, if it was necessary for   
her to--  
  
"Ma'am?" Rosemerta was back, laying a palm on her velvet-covered shoulder. "You alright?"  
  
Mistake Number One. Christine slowly opened her eyes. Feigning a long yawn, she stretched   
and smiled. "I'm fine. Perhaps I've read enough for today." With the flexibility of year   
of training, she bent over the chair, gathering up her books and notes. "Thank you," she   
added, handing the barely-touched mug of chocolate back to Rosemerta. "Put it on my tab,   
would you?"  
  
Rosemerta nodded, and Christine strode briskly towards the door, grabbing her outer cloak   
as she went. At the last possible second, she stole a glance in the direction of the man,   
attempting to take one of those mental snapshots she was so well-known for, and strode out.   
It was only when she found herself in the blindness of the rapidly falling snow that she   
analyzed what she had seen. He, too, had been sitting with books, his back to the fire.   
His robes, although rather old, appeared clean and well-ordered, as were his hands, despite   
their proximity to a quill and bottle of ink. They had been rugged hands, well-shaped, with   
lines like her father's. He looked older than he was, she guessed, as Kevin had. Wisps of   
gray had begun to take shape around his face, but Christine suspected that was more from   
stress than age. It was his eyes, though, that showed his true, non-biological age. . .   
there had been more in those eyes than an instant could analyze--they were deep eyes, with   
a hint of something she couldn't discern in them. . . She stopped, and laughed at herself.  
  
"Only you, Chris, could turn a potential threat into a possible date in under three minutes,"   
she scolded herself aloud. Chuckling at her own incongruity, she adjusted the parcel of books   
on her back and melted into the snow.  
  
***  
Remus Lupin shivered as the open door let in a blast of air. Pulling his cloak tighter around   
his shoulders, he moved towards the fire, hoping to absorb some additional warmth. He glanced   
towards the chair where she had clanged in his direction, like one glances at a piece of   
furniture or a person on a Muggle bus. That was good, though, he supposed. The fewer people   
who noticed him, the better. Some things--and he knew exactly which ones--people could discern   
with instinct more so than with logic, and he certainly didn't need another person giving him   
that look again. This woman, however, hadn't looked at him that way--of course, she may have   
been distracted by the fact that everyone in the pub was looking at her. Strangers who weren't   
students were rare in Hogsmeade; after all his time and Hogwarts as a student and as a teacher,   
he still got his share of glances. To have a strange woman appear from the midst of a winter   
storm, particularly one who wore a velvet cloak and read Muggle books, was a rare occurrence   
indeed. Especially, Remus mused, someone who held herself with such confidence amidst strangers,   
as if she were royalty and it was the rest of the world's loss for not realizing it.   
  
Rosemerta came over to collect his now-empty mug of butterbeer. "Another, Professor?" she asked.  
  
"Thank you, no. I'd best be on my way."  
  
Rosemerta laughed, catching his sideways glance towards the door. "Noticed her too, did you?"  
  
Somehow, Remus didn't think he had noticed the woman in the way some of the wizards at the bar   
had, but, taking advantage of her observation, asked, "Who is she?"  
  
"Name's Christine, and this is her first time in Hogsmeade. That's all I could get from her."  
  
If that was all Rosemerta could learn about the woman, it was all anyone would know, Remus   
thought. Retracing her footsteps and nodding to Rosemerta, he stiffened his thin body to the   
cold and stepped outside.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2--we're still developing here. I tend to go heavy on dialogue, so please bear with me and  
keep reading!  
  
  
  
  
***  
Christine banged the enormous doors shut behind her, whipping off her scarf and pressing her   
palms to her cheeks, in a futile effort to restore some warmth. How strange that she had   
forgotten about Scottish winters in so short a time! Her bags-a trunk, large piece of issued   
luggage, and two long cases of different shapes, lay on the floor at her feet, dripping water   
onto the stone floors which formed the entry way. She stared up at the vaulted ceiling, then   
across from her at one of many doors, staircases, and hallways she could choose. Having no   
idea which to take, she leaned back against the huge doors and tried to decide how to find   
the one individual here whom she knew.  
  
Despite her years of experience with the impossible, meeting Albus Dumbledore had not been   
what she had expected. It hadn't been the first time they had met, of course, but she had   
been so young the first time that she only remembered bits and pieces. She recalled the look   
on Geral's face more clearly than anyone else-an expression of both surprise and resolute   
determination.  
  
"I can train her," he had said. "It's what her father would have wanted."  
  
That's when she had first started to pay attention.   
  
"Perhaps. However, our first concern must be to keep her safe. Hogwarts is really the best   
place for her-I assure you, she'll be under my personal protection."  
  
"No. Absolutely not. We haven't avoided other wizards for all this time for no reason,   
Dumbledore. Besides, attending Hogwarts didn't save her parents."  
  
The other man-older, with a wild beard, blinked slowly, but didn't break his gaze.   
"Unfortunately, no. As you well know, training alone is not enough in certain. . .situations.   
However, her enrollment at Hogwarts would provide her with a wider range of. . . ."  
  
"Opportunities?? She doesn't need opportunities. She needs to be able to survive!"  
  
Dumbledore's face hardened slightly. "She does...or you do? Is this a conversation about   
her future, or your past?"  
  
Geral sank back into his chair. "I've come to terms with my past-which is what she'll need   
to do. What happens when she starts asking questions? Will you answer those for her? What   
about the fact that she'll be the youngest one there? How will you explain that to her?"  
  
"Admittedly, her youth is unusual. However, she would not start coursework until she met the   
required age. You know as well as I that Hogwarts has certain protections that. . . ."  
  
"That may hinder her own abilities. I'm sorry. No."   
  
The problem, she thought, was that he never did get around to those explanations.  
  
  
The second time she had seen Dumbledore had been three months ago. This time, it had been she   
seeking him. After Geral's death, when she had been searching through his belongings for   
something, anything, she had found the letter...the one she, true to form, had received shortly   
after her eleventh birthday. She had read it, of course; Geral would never lie to her. He just   
didn't always tell the whole truth. He had even asked her if she had wanted to attend.  
  
"You could join them, you know," he had proposed. Of course, by that point, she knew she   
couldn't. He had dropped hints, over the years, that there were more like them out there,   
somewhere, but yet. . .they were different. They suspected people with her abilities. Their   
power rested in objects outside themselves-the wands that were intricately linked to the fairy   
tales of her childhood. They had lost certain. . .elements. Certain controls. Only the most   
advanced had the concentration, the focus, to maintain their natural abilities without material   
aids. . .of course, he had been right, she thought wryly. He had also been extremely manipulative.   
  
She had run directly into his arms. "No," she said, "I couldn't."  
  
With that, the matter was settled, and they had led a reasonably normal life. Christine had   
attended Muggle schools, a Muggle university, even joined the Muggle military. The whole time,   
she and Geral were careful to keep their secret, and her training, their own. No one suspected   
anything-if she had an uncanny ability to read people's emotions, well, it was a result of her   
degree in psychology. If she had a knack for escaping unscathed in dogfight after dogfight-well,   
it was because she had a natural talent for the cockpit.   
  
But then Geral had died, and Kevin shortly after, she pondered, and when someone loses both the   
only parent they've really known and their husband so close to one another, it leads to a certain   
period of seeking. . . .  
  
So she had sought, and the letter was the most concrete pointer she found. She had read it,   
re-read it, and wondered if, somewhere along the line, someone had a made a mistake that her   
years of learning both Muggle and magical defenses couldn't fix. To her surprise, however,   
Dumbledore had found her, even before she had decided to-  
  
"Can I help you?" a scathing voice snapped, breaking her reverie. Mistake Number Two. Her head   
swung down, eyes open, to stare upon a greasy-haired figure, thin, but wearing the black robes   
of a Hogwarts professor. His sudden appearance made her try and step back; instead, her wet head   
thudded against the door which stood directly behind her, and she let out a small gasp. Her mind   
quickly built walls that time and effort had taught her to do instinctively, closing her expression.   
His eyes stared sharply at her, like a mastiff a friend had owned who seemed like he would only   
tolerate so many slip-ups before biting your hand off.  
  
Regaining control, she took a deep breath, and put on her best diplomat face-the one Kevin joked   
could launch a thousand treaties. "I have an appointment with Professor Dumbledore. If you could   
point me towards his office, I'd greatly appreciate it."  
  
  
The man looked at her with his eyebrows arched widely, and for a fleeting instant, she worried   
that he wouldn't help her. Suddenly, he flung on his heel, and walked up the stairs. Christine   
couldn't stop comparing him to her first advisor at the Academy, who made it a habit to do   
whatever possible to throw freshmen off-balance. However, her time as the wife of an officer   
had removed all possibility of intimidation by superiors, and the same concept would apply here   
as well. She bounded the stairs two at a time till she found herself walking alongside him.  
  
After a time of silence, Christine found herself in front of a gargoyle, to which the man turned   
and said, "Chocolate Frogs." A door opened up to yet another staircase, which Christine took to   
eagerly. A skeletal hand held her back. "Wait," the man said, and left her at the foot of the   
staircase. Christine watched him depart, trying to think of exactly who he reminded her of.  
  
It was only a few seconds later before a door at the top of the steps opened again, and   
Dumbledore's form was outlined by the light behind him. His blue eyes twinkled as he spotted   
her, and she impulsively ran up the stairs, throwing her arms about his neck. The other man   
produced a snort of disbelief behind her.  
  
"Professor Snape, if you would excuse us?" Dumbledore requested, guiding Christine into his   
office.   
  
Eyeing her with equal amounts of suspicion and dislike, Professor. . .Snape, was it? Glared   
again at her and strode down the stairs. 'Friendly, isn't he. . .' she thought, when Dumbledore   
interrupted.  
  
"You'll find Professor Snape to be an invaluable resource for you, Ms. Fields. He is one of the   
most superior potion makers on our side." Christine blushed, glanced down at Dumbledore's shoes,   
noticed they were shocking green, and looks quickly back up again. Mentally kicking herself, she   
remembered. Mistake Number Three-she had forgotten that Dumbledore's abilities paralleled hers   
in many ways. Through years of training, both magically with Geral and by observation in class,   
Christine prided herself on her ability to discern the thoughts of others. It wasn't telepathy,   
or any ability to predict the future-she'd leave that to the better-qualified. No, this was far   
more instinctive, an ability which had existed long before she'd met Dumbledore, or even Geral,   
one which enabled her both mentally and by observation to discern emotions of others and thereby   
appear, sometimes, to read minds. Or, she mused, he could just use some sort of magical telepathy.   
She wouldn't know. She could only-  
  
"Ms. Fields."  
  
Mistake Number Four. This had to be some sort of record. "Sorry, sir."  
  
"Understandable. If I may begin?"  
  
She nodded.  



	3. Chapter 3

  
***  
Dumbledore waved the door shut with his wand. Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out a gold,   
foil-wrapped package and laid it upon the desk. Christine stared at it, glanced up at Dumbledore,   
and looked at the package once again. "May I?" she inquired.  
  
"Please." As she reached for the parcel, Dumbledore used his wand to tap the emerald tea kettle   
sitting between them. A sharp whistle emitted from it. "Tea?"  
  
"Yes, please." He poured the steaming liquid into a small mug. She tugged at the ends of the   
foil. It rolled open briskly, as if it had a mind of its own--which, Christine mused, it very   
well might--revealing..."A piece of cloth?"  
  
"Is that all you see?" He handed her the mug. She sipped slowly, being careful not to burn her   
tongue.  
  
"Blackberry! You remembered!" she exclaimed. He smiled, gesturing towards the cloth. Her   
attention drawn back to the matter at hand, she stared at the fabric again. "I see...cotton.   
No stains or tears...the fabric looks fairly new, really...."  
  
"You're only seeing what your eyes allow you to. Touch it."  
  
Hesitantly, she placed her ring finger upon the edge of the cloth. She let out a small gasp as   
gold embroidery spread from her fingertips in a meander pattern. Eyes wide, she withdrew her   
hand, and placed her palm flat upon the center of the cloth. Instantaneously, multiple patterns   
grew from it--spirals, vines, crosshatches, and others--in every possible orientation and   
direction. "What...?"  
  
Instead of answering, Dumbledore took out his wand and placed its tip upon the cloth. An orderly   
silver spiral formed about it, moving far more rapidly and with far more precision than Christine's.   
He removed the wand, and pressed a corner between his index finger and thumb. A wave leapt from   
it, shooting straight towards the center of the cloth until it met one of Christine's vines and   
stopped. "This will be of some help to you, I trust."  
  
As usual in her conversations with Dumbledore, it appeared she was missing something. "How,   
exactly?"  
  
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he smiled at her. "You are familiar with the classics, yes?"   
Christine nodded. "Tell me about Achilles."  
  
Having absolutely no idea where this was going, she replied slowly, "Achilles was...the epitome   
of the classic hero. He embodied the Athenian virtues...helping your friends and hurting your   
enemies, being both mighty on the battlefield and lyrical by the fire, seeking immortality   
through glory..."  
  
"How did that happen?"  
  
"Immortality? For Achilles, I suppose, it was through Homer, and the poets before him who kept   
the story alive."  
  
"So who is stronger--the hero or the poet?"  
  
Christine paused, then let out sharp burst of laughter. "My old philosophy teacher would love   
you. Personally, I would propose that neither is stronger than the other. The hero only gains   
immortality through the writings of the poet, while the poet can only write epics because of   
the stories of the hero."  
  
"So which is stronger--the mind alone, or that in conjunction with a material aid?"  
  
She suddenly realized what he was getting at. "But I can work without a wand, so the analogy   
doesn't follow through."  
  
"But can you accomplish the same things? The same spells? Your magical training to this point   
has been useful--incredibly so. You have concentration and control that many wizards never learn.   
However, you limit yourself." He held up his palm as she opened her mouth to object. She closed   
it again, silently. "You have claimed to me before that reliance upon wands constitutes a   
weakness. This is true, to some extent; however, there are holes in your method as well. No one,   
despite their abilities, is infallible; what happens when your concentration breaks, when you're   
distracted? When your emotion interferes with your abilities? The wand and the mind, Ms. Fields,   
are codependent."  
  
"And the cloth...."  
  
"As I said, it's an aid. Use the wand and your mind as one to control the pattern. when you can   
use both to complete a sufficient pattern, you will understand how important balancing the two   
is. Take it with you--it's yours."  
  
"But sir, I couldn't--."  
  
"I'm not the one giving it to you, Ms. Fields. It belonged to your father. You may go now."  
  
She sat back, eyes open in response. "My...."  
  
"Your father. He left it in my care shortly after you were born. Now, I assume you will want to   
gather your thoughts before this evening."  
  
The news about the cloth was pushed to the back of her mind in light of more immediate concerns.   
"Sir, what am I doing here?" she blurted out.  
  
"We should all ask that question, Ms. Fields." This is like talking to a centaur, she thought.   
"However," he continued, "I assume you are referring to your role at Hogwarts?" She nodded.   
"Should you wish to continue your magical education here, we can enroll you in classes after   
some preliminary testing. For now, we shall have to have your sorting."  
  
"My--sir, are you planning on assigning me to a House?"  
  
"You do wish to be a student here, do you not?"  
  
"Yes, but...I'm twelve years older than your oldest student!"  
  
"I had thought that you, of anyone, would understand that there is far more to be learned   
outside the classroom than inside. Besides, you will find your classmates' help invaluable.   
If you are to become a student here, you must take the part of one--and that includes living   
arrangements, rules, and discipline. Is this acceptable to you?"  
  
Chagrined, she dipped her head. "Yes, sir."  
  
His eyes sparkled as he reached for her hand. Taking it, he said, "There is a little under an   
hour till dinner. You will meet Professor McGonagall by the main entrance at that time. She will   
show you to the Great Hall for supper and your sorting. Until then, feel free to explore the   
grounds. Oh, and Ms. Fields," he started as she turned to leave, "Welcome to Hogwarts."  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Sorry this has taken SO LONG to get posted--I've been traveling and haven't been able to access my files. Thanks for your  
patience and for wading through all this. Is it too heavy on dialogue?? I'm trying to get to the crux of the plot, but   
I keep getting distracted by details and character development. What do you think? Too much? Too little? I take all   
reviews seriously, so please please please critique and review! thanks!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
***  
Harry and Ron met up with Hermione at the bottom of the stairs. She took one look at them and promptly rolled her eyes.   
"Honestly. You'd think one Quidditch match was the end of the world. It wasn't even Gryfinndor that lost!!"  
  
Harry and Ron looked at each other. There were some things Hermione would never understand. Ron shifted his books impatiently.   
"For the millionth time, Hermione!! We needed Ravenclaw to win this one--If Slytherin has too many points by the time we play   
them--and we all know Hufflepuff doesn't stand a chance without...." He trailed off into an awkward silence as he realized where  
the statement was going.  
  
"It's OK!" Harry burst out suddenly. "Everyone's been walking on pins and needles around me all year--His name was Cedric, Cedric   
Diggory, and he's dead."  
  
He had spoken louder than he had intended, and the hallway fell into an awkward silence. The normally chaotic flow of people   
towards the Great Hall stopped as everyone turned to stare at Harry. Heat rose up his cheeks. "C'mon," he muttered, as he, Ron,   
and Hermione continued onward. After a moment, somewhat cautiously, the other students reassumed their noise.  
  
Harry kept his head down till they entered the Great Hall. It had been over seven months since Cedric's death--a very long seven   
months. Most of the summer he had spent at the Dursley's, who hadn't even read the letter Dumbledore had sent with Harry to explain   
about the situation--not, Harry thought, that they would care. He could just hear Uncle Vernon's voice--"Why should I be surprised   
that one of...of your kind got killed? If he were just normal like the rest of us...now, about those thousand gold whatever they're   
called...."   
  
The only relief of the stay was that Dudley's diet had been an utter failure, so Aunt Petunia had cooked real meals again. The   
Dursleys had resigned themselves to hiring a tailor to make Dudley's uniforms--"Surely, for a young man as big and strong as my   
Dudleykins, we can get some decent clothing," Aunt Petunia had said, with a sideways glance at Harry as if to say that robes, or  
course, were most definitely not proper attire for any respectable person.  
  
A reverie had come at the end of summer, when he had stayed at the Weasley's for the few weeks before the start of term. Even   
those weeks had been a bit awkward--Mrs. Weasley fussed over Harry so much that Fred and George finally took it upon themselves  
to cause as much disruption as possible so that Harry could sneak outside unnoticed (although Harry suspected they would have  
caused trouble whether he'd been there or not). Hermione had joined them, of course, and between the three of them, things had   
really gone quite well. It was only during certain moments, Harry thought, like that of a few minutes ago, that things became awkward.  
  
Upon arriving back at Hogwarts, however, things came back in full force. No one knew what to say, so most people didn't say much at  
all. Even the staff seemed subdued--Snape was grouchier than ever, and Dumbledore looked like he had aged several years over the summer.   
This wasn't surprising, Harry realised, considering what was happening with Voldemort and his supporters. Although nothing on the scale  
of events which had happened at the Tri-Wizard Tournament had made the Daily Prophet over the summer (Hermione made sure to update him  
via Owl Post), Harry and Ron had overheard Mr. Weasley discussing the situation with Mrs. Weasley several times. Apparently, the actions   
of the Death Eaters had been escalating. Several sightings had occurred, and three Muggles had been killed in what the London Times termed   
a "freak train accident" that the Ministry knew was no accident at all. Even the information Crouch Jr. had provided hadn't been enough   
to make any arrests, although Mr. Weasley seemed to spend a great deal of time looking for loopholes. Whatever information Harry and Ron   
learned from Mr. Weasley, directly or indirectly, was confirmed by Sirius, whose letters still came, but even less frequently than before.   
Harry worried about him--whatever work Dumbledore had assigned to him probably wasn't too far away from Britain, increasing the odds of his  
recapture. And now, even Quidditch had been going poorly. Gryfinndor had won its first match against Ravenclaw, but just barely, and now   
Ravenclaw had lost miserably to Slytherin, which was not a good sign. Slytherin, it seemed, had acquired some inspiration from recent events,   
and had been playing that much more aggressively. Plus, they had gained an incredible Beater--Kako Silven, a freshman whose grandfather had   
been on the Cerphilly Catapults the year they won the European Cup, and who had apparently passed on the tradition to his grandson. To make   
matters worse, Silven seemed to idolize Malfoy.  
  
"But," interjected Hermione, apparently in an attempt to lift the oppressive mood which had settled, "We could still beat Slytherin, and  
we'll probably beat Hufflepuff as well, so...we're still in good shape." Ron just shook his head as the three entered the Hall.  
  
Fred and George Weasley were already seated at the Gryfinndor table. "Moping again?" George asked incredulously. "How many   
times has it been this week?"  
  
"How can you be surprised?" asked Ron grumpily.  
  
"Try this," Fred suggested, pushing a cellophane-wrapped piece of chocolate towards them. "It'll make you feel better."  
  
"Not a chance," Harry said. After nearly a year of exposure to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, including Salivating Strawberry Suckers  
(which made you drool uncontrollably), and Catnip Caramels (which made you grow whiskers and had, unfortunately, been first   
offered to Hermione), they had all learned to avoid anything and everything Fred and George offered them.  
  
"Fine then," said George, "Insult us--"  
  
"Wound the very being of our souls--"  
  
"Crush our humble dreams--"  
  
Ron rolled his eyes as a huge bulk of students entered the Hall.  
  
"--We're having chocolate custard tonight, by the way."  
  
"So?" Ron asked.  
  
George lowered his voice. "I just wouldn't have any if I were--." He stopped talking as other students sat down  
beside them. Harry looked at them and grinned.  
  
Hermione looked horrified. "You didn't. . .," she whispered.  
  
Fred winked, then stopped and looked towards the door. "What's this?" he asked.  
  
"Nice try, Fred," said Ron.  
  
"No, honestly," George interjected. "We aren't always causing trouble. It's one of our major shortcomings.  
Think that's the new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher?"  
  
Everyone turned and looked towards the door, where McGonagall had just entered, followed shortly by another woman.  
  
"Well, she'd be better to look at than Snape."  
  
"Ron." Hermione stared at him, shocked. "She might be your teacher." Personally, Harry thought Ron was right;   
anyone would be better to look at than Snape, who had been filling in since the start of the school year.   
Apparently, the fact that Hogwarts' DADA teachers rarely lasted more than a year had not gone unnoticed by potential   
job applicants.  
  
The woman was young--older than they, of course, with an upright step and long, slightly curling brown hair   
tucked into a ponytail that bounced when she moved--and seemed to have a branch stuck in it. Could that be   
right? Harry looked closer--yes, she definitely had some leaves tangled in her hair.  
  
"She does a good impression of a bush, at least," George quipped.  
  
"Could be useful," Fred pointed out. "Deceiving Your Enemy, Lesson One: Becoming One with the Flora."  
  
Hermione shook her head. "Look at McGonagall." Professor McGonagall's lips were pursed--an expression which   
Harry and Ron, with all their misadventures, knew meant trouble. Without glancing backwards, she led the   
young woman to the centre of the hall, in front of the staff table. As the other students settled down,   
Dumbledore stood, holding out his hands for attention.  
  



	5. Chapter 5

"Tonight," he began, "I have the pleasure of introducing a new student. Her education has, to this point,  
been quite different from yours, and I hope that the house she is sorted in will provide her with the utmost  
support. Ms. Fields." He gestured to the stool and ragged hat that Hagrid was bringing into the room. Hagrid   
winked at her.  
  
"She looks nervous," whispered Hermione, just as Ron chimed in with, "She's a student?" He looked rather  
pleased at the idea.  
  
"Maybe she plays Quidditch," said Harry. "We could use. . . ."  
  
"--if," Angelina, who had joined Fred and George, "she's in--"  
  
"GRYFINNDOR!" the hat shouted.   
  
"Well, that answers that," said George, drowned out by the shouts and cheers of the Gryfinndor table. The  
woman walked over, smiling somewhat shyly.   
  
"I guess I'm yours," she said, watching their reactions closely.  
  
"Ron," Hermione hissed, "Scoot over!"  
  
Ron sat with his mouth partway open. "Wha--oh. Sorry." Christine slid in between he and Angelina, making  
eye contact with those around her. Not knowing what else to say, she introduced herself.  
  
"Christine, but just call me Chris. It's easier."   
  
Fred fielded the introductions. "I'm Fred Weasly--this is George, a man of taste. This is Angelina Johnson,  
and Katie Bell, both fantastic Keepers. The maniac further down there is Lee Jordan." Lee gave her a  
peace out sign. "Here's Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter. . . ." Harry watched as she looked at his face,  
noted the scar and gave no reaction at all. "Neville Longbottom, and the git next to you is my brother, Ron.   
Oh, and Ginny's further down that way. George, Lee, Angelina, Katie and I are all 7th years--Ginny's a 3rd year,   
and everyone else is in their 5th. They aren't placing you with the 1sts, are they?"  
  
Their dinner--roast beef and stuffed cabbage--appeared before them. Christine's eyes widened slightly before   
addressing Fred's question. "I don't know. I have," (her face twitched slightly) "tests tomorrow morning to  
decide that kind of thing."  
  
The conversation continued from there, with Christine fielding and dodging a whole host of questions she wasn't   
prepared to answer, and a few she was. Where was she from? Scotland, originally. Did she get a letter?   
Yes, but it got misplaced. How? Why come back now? What kind of training had she had? And to themselves:   
Why does McGonagall look so unhappy?  
  
"And why," interjected Hermione, "do you have leaves in your hair?"  
  
"I told you," George said, "she's. . . ." Angelina kicked him from under the table.  
  
"What's in my hair?" Christine's expression was as confused as their own. She reached up. ". . . oh!", and  
pulled a large twig out. She looked suddenly sheepish. "Well, I didn't really know all the rules," (everyone   
grinned) ". . .and, well, the forest looked so interesting, and I only walked into the foliage about fifty meters  
when I found what looked like hoofprints, so I started to follow them, and. . .I rather forgot that I was to  
meet McGonagall for supper, and she sent Hagrid after me, and . . . well, I don't suppose she likes me all that much."  
  
"Did she take away points?" Neville chimed in anxiously.  
  
Ron shot him a dirty look. "She wasn't in a house yet."  
  
"No, but since I had been made aware of the rules--Professor--Snape? made sure of that. . ." (Harry and Ron blanched   
slightly) ". . . I did get a detention. Apparently, that rule was actually meant to be kept." Christine relaxed,   
as she felt herself slipping into a student role once again--it had been a long time, but she may as well enjoy herself.   
  
"A detention? On day one?"  
  
"That's pretty good, Fred, she could be a candidate. . . ."  
  
"Maybe. She still has to . . . ."  
  
"Candidate for what?:" Harry inquired.  
  
"We figured," George stated, "that with the number of detentions we've all gotten over the last few years, that we  
ought to start some sort of group--a sort of mischief-elite, you might say. . . ."  
  
"So who's in this club?" Ron asked.   
  
"It's not a club--" stated Fred.  
  
"--it's an elite group of only the most. . . ."  
  
"Whatever." replied Ron. "It's just you and Fred, isn't it?"  
  
The twins looked at each other. "Well, yes," began Fred. "The requirements are very stringent, you see, but we've  
already had our first gathering, and you'll see the results. . . ." He trailed off as the custard suddenly appeared.  
Hermione suddenly looked alarmed.  
  
As Fred and George exchanged looks, Christine reached across the table, and began ladling large spoonfuls into a   
bowl. Multiple voices suddenly emerged in protest--albeit quietly.  
  
"It's--it's bad. Really bad." muttered Ron lamely.  
  
"But everything else has been . . . ."  
  
"The House Elves just can't make a good custard," squirmed Harry, praying Dobby and Winky weren't able to somehow   
overhear him.  
  
George grabbed the bowl and stood up. "Oy! Ginny!" He placed the bowl in front of her. she looked at it suspiciously.   
George rolled his eyes. "For the love, Ginny, the House Elves made it, not us--it was Christine's, actually, but  
now she doesn't want it." Christine, taking her cue, nodded and smiled. As Ginny moved the pudding back and forth  
with her spoon, hesitant as if it might grow fur and fangs and leap at her, a small entourage from the Slytherin table  
approached.  
  
A boy of medium height led the group--short, silver-blond hair, with elegant features and a nose stuck partly up in the air.  
Christine resisted the urge to start giggling. He reminded her of another admiral's wife--a bald woman who insisted on  
wearing the most elaborate wigs (Kev always joked that she was compensating for other things), with jewelry to match,  
and who only deigned to speak with her small cortege, which followed her around like bodyguards, fawning and simpering.   
Indeed, the boys following the boy seemed to serve the same purpose--she thought--big brawny yes-men, by the look of them.  
A younger boy was also in the group--sharp green eyes, short brown hair--as were several girls. Hermione pointed  
them out under her breath-- "Draco Malfoy, and his gorillas, Crabbe and Goyle. That's Silven--a first year--and   
that one's Pansy Parkinson. . . ."  
  
"The one that looks like a pug?" Chris muttered. Hermione grinned.  
  
Malfoy sauntered to the edge of the table. He cast a long look upon Christine--had he been older, she would have   
assumed he was checking her out. As it was, he still seemed to be gauging her somehow--*He's checking for weaknesses*, she  
suddenly realised. Finally, he met her gaze. "Well." he drawled, "It's somewhat unfortunate, really. . .you haven't even  
gotten used to our kind yet, and here you are in the worst house in the. . . ." He stopped as Ron and Harry stood up  
forcefully.  
  
"Say it, Malfoy," Ron hissed.  
  
"Ron," Hermione whispered urgently.  
  
Malfoy's eyes narrowed and he stepped forward just as McGonagall rushed over. "There isn't a problem, is there?" she  
asked, frowning.  
  
Malfoy's expression switched from anger to distaste. "No, Professor."  
  
"Good. I suggest you return to your own table."   
  
She gave both Draco and Ron a hard glare, and walked away, looking back to see if the Slytherins were moving. Draco glared   
at Christine, and whispered, barely perceptibly, "You still have time to go back." As he sauntered off, his small group   
moved with him, Crabbe and Goyle grabbing Neville's and Ginny's custards as they went. Crabbe grinned snidely at Neville,  
cuffing him on the head as he left. As Malfoy and Chris continued to evaluate the other, McGonagall spun back around in  
rage.  
  
"I suggest," she said tightly, "that you return those." As Crabbe and Goyle begrudingly handed the bowls back, Christine  
help up a hand in protest.  
  
"Wait." she said suddenly, still looking at Malfoy. "The kids said they could have them." Ginny shot Neville a glare as   
he started to protest.  
  
McGonagall looked confused, as did the Slytherins. "Are you sure?" she asked the two. Ginny nodded. "Well then," she   
stated, appearing somewhat confused as well. "Then I suppose you may keep them. However, 10 points from Slytherin. You  
know what behavior is expected of you. To your seats, now."  
  
As the Slytherins left, the Gryfinndors exploded into muffled whispers. From Neville: "Why'd you do that?". George and  
Fred looked at Christine, shaking their heads and trying not to laugh.   
  
"There was something wrong with it, wasn't there?" whispered Ginny furiously. The twins grinned. Christine, however,   
appeared thoughtful, perhaps worried. Predictably, it was Hermione who picked up on some of the more subtle nuances of  
the exchange. She leaned towards Christine, who started suddenly.  
  
"What did he mean, 'you still have time to go back'?"  
  
Christine paused. "I imagine," she said smoothly," that he meant to the sorting hat."  
  
It was a weak answer, and both knew it. Any further questioning, however, was postponed as a loud cry of protest arose  
from the Slytherin table. The whole hall rose to its feet, and ripples of laughter spread throughout the hall.  
  
There stood Crabbe, his face screwed up inprotest as his face, hands, neck, and hair gradually turned gold and maroon.   
A series of small roars came from his neck, as suddenly a large tattoo of a lion stalked around the side of his shoulder.  
Everyone at the Gryfinndor table looked at the twins. Sitting down ("As if we didn't all know who did it," muttered Ron),  
Fred said softly, "We thought it would be a good way to instill some spirit--for a few days, at least. We figured any  
Gryfinndor would be proud to be our mascot--we didn't plan on those lugs taking it. Worked better this way, though."  
  
As Snape rushed to his house to repair the damage, McGonagall once again swept back to the table. "Frankly," she shot   
daggers at the twins, "I had thought we were past this ridiculous phase. Since it seems some of you have not, 30 points   
from Gryfinndor. Consider yourself lucky."   
  
She walked off and the table groaned. The sight of Crabbe squirming in displeasure, however, tempered the loss of points.  
Seeing Snape moving to confront McGonagall, Hermione gestured to her housemates, who crept out of the hall as   
inobtrusively as possible.  
  
  
  



End file.
